


Forced Tears

by Tia_Pixie



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Corporal Punishment, Cruel to be Kind, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martinet, Masochism, Savoy-related, Survivor Guilt, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tia_Pixie/pseuds/Tia_Pixie
Summary: In the wake of the Savoy massacre, Treville is forced to take action when Aramis' non-existent coping strategies cause concern from other members of the regiment.  Written as a prompt fill whereby Treville uses corporal punishment to assuage Aramis' guilt-ridden angsting.





	Forced Tears

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING - Contains corporal punishment (with a martinet/whip) of an adult by an authority figure. Sort of a military punishment, but to be honest more of a parental one (albeit a severe one). While that is the central scene, I do not personally feel that the story is /about/ that per se.
> 
> I am in no way suggesting that beating someone is an appropriate method of grief counselling...
> 
> I realise this is not for everyone, and that's cool. Different strokes.

From his position on the balcony, Treville watches as, with a cry, the young man is once more felled by his opponent. Porthos is still fairly new, only having joined a month or so before Aramis and the others had set out for Savoy, and thus is not inclined to let Aramis win as some of the older hands might. Nonetheless, though he inevitably emerges victorious, he is careful about how he does so and allows Aramis to fall with dignity. He is the man Treville hoped he had become – more, Treville suspects, his mother's son than Belgard's – and despite the shouts of congratulations from his fellow recruits does not crow over his triumph. Treville smiles a little at that.

 

That smile soon turns to a frustrated sigh as Porthos turns and offers Aramis a hand up, only to have the Spaniard knock it aside in apparent disgust. Porthos' face falls and a murmur of disapproval runs through the assembled men – old and new. Peacock as he may be, Aramis has never been ungracious in defeat and it is more than a small slight that he is so now.

 

Porthos says something, his tone serious and a little angry but too low to make out the words. Aramis glares up at him and whatever he says in response causes another wave of unease to ripple through their fellows. With a nod, Porthos turns and stalks from the yard, his hands clenched at his sides and positively exuding anger.

 

Treville knows his men too well to miss the flicker of regret in Aramis' face. Etienne steps forward then, and helps Aramis gain his feet whether he likes it or not, his manner one of exasperated sympathy. He draws the younger man away from the crowd – almost to a place where Treville cannot see them – and stands with Aramis, speaking low and urgent and unmoved by whatever sullen, sharp answers Aramis gives in return.

 

After a while Etienne rejoins the others, laughing along at some story or other, but his eyes are shadowed and Treville reads in him the same almost paternal concern that he himself feels. Aramis may have survived that frozen forest in Savoy, but he has returned _different_ somehow. He cannot balance without his other half. While Marsac's temper had led them into difficulty more than a few times, his natural inclination towards caution had often prevented Aramis' impetuousness from landing him in disaster. Now Aramis is not so much impetuous as dangerous. He is restless to be allowed back onto duty, Treville knows, but cannot yet be trusted with his own life let alone that of others.

 

They have spoken only a little since Treville had found him – insensible and half-dead amongst the pile of corpses that were his brothers – and though it has been mostly intentional on Treville's part, Aramis has not sought him out either. Aramis has not sought _anybody_ out.  To his shame, Treville has only become aware of that fact in the last day or so. The last two months have been a whirlwind of recruiting in the wake of their loss, expediting the training of those already joined and fielding the inevitable political repercussions of such an incident in supposedly allied land. The king is more inconvenienced than upset by the loss of so many fine men and, even were he inclined to, Treville has not been called upon to advise for some time. He has not spoken with Richelieu either. Whatever tentative alliance they may have formed as Louis' closest and most trusted advisers is now in tatters.

 

His mind has simply been on other matters and too occupied with his own guilt and grief to think too long on Aramis'. Though in truth he could not say who, he had genuinely assumed Aramis would seek whatever comfort he needed from his remaining fellows. With only a few exceptions (those who had lost close companions in Savoy), any of his brothers would have gladly given it. Treville wonders with a twist of guilt how it is for Aramis – who has never in all their acquaintance been content with only himself for company – to be so utterly alone. No Marsac to quarrel and laugh with, no fellow musketeers to pass the time with. Only the ghosts of his brothers left in Savoy.

 

“Sir?” A voice at his shoulder pulls Treville from his thoughts and he gratefully leads Etienne into his office.

 

Etienne follows, his face grave, and he hovers before approaching the desk. Weathered by time and battle, Etienne had already been in the regiment when Treville joined them and was appointed captain, and has been one of his most staunch supporters throughout. Treville fears his disapproval as much as he welcomes his counsel.

 

“Yes, Etienne?” he greets with some trepidation.

 

The older man hesitates for a moment, suddenly unsure.

 

Treville sighs. “What is it?”

 

“May I sit?”

 

Treville waves a hand in invitation, utterly resigned to it all. Welcoming of it, even. Etienne steps forward and takes the seat opposite him.

 

“Are you quite well, Sir?”

 

Treville smiles wanly, surprised and yet somehow not. “It has been a very long month,” he admits. Then, in a moment of embittered self-pity adds, “And a very long time since someone has asked me that.”

 

Etienne smiles but offers no more. They talk on and off then, of the new recruits and those recently commissioned or training, of the latest exploits of some of their men, recent missions and so forth. And finally, as Etienne's cup runs dry and Treville refills his own for a third time, the older man pauses, then says,

  
“Captain, may I speak freely?”

 

“On what topic?” he asks, if only to delay the inevitable a little longer.

 

“He is not well,” Etienne says, indifferent to his captain's hedging. “The boy can barely hold his head up but will fight any man who offers.”

 

With a humourless smile, Treville nods. “He gives a good account of himself still.”

 

And it is true. Aramis is still weakened by his ordeal, and cannot hope to win against any but the greenest of soldiers but he had lasted a surprisingly long time against Porthos – and without too many allowances from the bigger man.

 

“He does not eat,” Etienne persists, his face eyes suddenly wide and honest with raw anxiety. “He barely sleeps. He does not take communion any longer.”

 

Treville glances into his cup, but says nothing.

 

“He does not _smile_.” Etienne shakes his head mournfully. “He is not the same lad we saw off.”

 

“Nor should we expect him to be. It will take _time,_ Etienne.”

 

“We understand that, _Sir_ , but for how long are we expected to watch him _destroy_ himself?!” Etienne looks quite as shocked by his own outburst as Treville. Before he can be reprimanded however, he shakes his head and says, “Forgive me, Captain. I spoke out of turn.”

 

Treville holds his gaze for a moment then, finally, waves it away. “No,” he sighs. “No. You are right. This has gone on long enough.”

 

The uneasy silence that falls between them then is interrupted by a sudden commotion out in the garrison yard. The excited shouts and splintering glass that tell a fight has broken out. Ordinarily Treville would ignore it, let his men resolve their differences however they think best, but then one of the stable-boys appears in his doorway, out of breath and pale as anything.

 

“Captain Treville, Sir,” he pants, “please come! It's Aramis and Benard – I think- I think they'll murder one another else!”

 

Treville and Etienne are on their feet and already pushing past the boy before he can finish his message, their footsteps resounding along the corridor as they hurry down to the yard. Benard's cousin, Guillaume, had been amongst those lost in Savoy. Young and eager to advance, Benard had eagerly taken up his late cousin’s commission – the king having agreed all too readily as theirs was a family of influence – but his resentment over his cousin's death is still raw. If Treville is honest with himself, he is surprised it has not come to this already.

 

A large crowd has assembled in the yard, baying and whooping as the two men in their midst roll around the yard like dogs, snarling and snatching at each other as they do. At their captain's arrival, the clamouring group falls silent and parts like the sea in Egypt as he approaches. Despite the sudden lack of support, the brawl continues, the two oblivious to their captain's ire. Treville strides forward and seizes Aramis by his collar, dragging him bodily from Benard.

 

“ _STOP!”_ Treville is gratified to see both young men flinch at his roar. “ _What_ is the meaning of this?” he hisses as Etienne pulls Benard to his feet and mirrors Treville's grip on Aramis.

 

“He's a Spanish whore's-son _traitor_!” Benard spits, twisting in Etienne's hold. “Why else would he alone survive while twenty others are _slaughtered_? At least that coward Marsac had the decency to desert!”

 

To Treville's disappointment, he sees more than a few of his men nod along with Benard's accusations.

 

“He has no right to speak of it!” Aramis rages, pale and shaking with fury. “He knows _nothing_ of what happened there!” His voice is hoarse, whether through lack of use or pure emotion, Treville is not certain. Regardless, it is possibly the most life he has shown in the weeks since they found him and inwardly Treville cheers.

 

Outwardly, he shakes Aramis roughly by the collar like a disobedient pup, and quells his struggling with a look.

 

“He knows _nothing_ about any of it!” Aramis insists nonetheless, eyes dark and betrayed as he turns his glare on his captain. There is something desperate, something so achingly _hurt_ in his gaze that Treville feels his chest seize.

 

He nods once, his acknowledgement that Aramis is right to be hurt, to be furious at Benard's accusations, and turns to address the crowd at large.

 

“We have _all_ suffered losses in Savoy,” he says, his voice carrying. “Every man has a right to his grief, but this distrust ends here. I will not have my men _brawling_ in the mud like common alley cats over this. Aramis is your brother-” he squeezes Aramis' shoulder tightly, “-and I will have it known that he has my _complete_ and _utter_ trust! Any one of you who says otherwise will answer directly to me. Is that understood?”

 

A general murmur of agreement rises from those assembled.

 

“I said, is that understood?” Treville repeats louder, glaring briefly at Benard.

 

This time there is a roar of agreement.

 

“Dismissed!”

 

But for Benard, Aramis, and Etienne the group disassembles quietly.

 

“I will not tolerate this again,” Treville says quietly, looking between the young men. “Benard, report to Serge. We shall see if a week's kitchen duties does anything to instil in you even a little of the discipline your cousin had. Dismissed.”

 

Benard settles a hateful look upon Aramis, who returns it, then snatches himself free of Etienne's grip and storms across the yard as directed.

 

“Thank you, Etienne.” Treville nods briefly to him as he turns and, Aramis still held firmly, proceeds back up the steps towards his office.

 

* * *

 

 

Aramis rubs at his arm when Treville releases him, and glances fretfully at him as he closes and bolts the door behind them. Treville takes up the other side of his desk and leans his hands upon it, allowing his head to drop for a moment.

 

“Tell me, Aramis,” he murmurs, not looking up, “if I were to reinstate you today – this minute – what would you do?”

 

“Sir?”

 

Treville straightens, exhaling harshly through his nose. “Would it be your intention,” he asks flatly, “to fall upon the first sword you came across? To _die_ the moment the opportunity arises.”

 

Aramis flounders, visibly struggling to construct an acceptable response and therein is Treville's answer.

 

“So then, what am I to do with you? Hm? I cannot reinstate you, and now it seems I cannot trust you even within the garrison. Just what am I to do with such a man, Aramis?”

 

The young man swallows convulsively, wild eyes flicking all about the room as he searches for something to say.

 

“Please...” he whispers eventually, not seeming to know what else to say – what it even is he is pleading for. “Please, Captain, I... I don't... Sir, please...”

 

Aramis is pale still, _ashen_ , as if he has not slept since he returned, and his face is shadowed. Once looking all of about eighteen of his twenty-three years, the supple and youthful muscularity has faded to haggardness. Treville's heart – hardened as a captain's must be – breaks for him. To be so utterly adrift from everything, desperately seeking _something_ and yet not sure what it is, or how to ask for it if he knows.

 

“Please don't send me away,” Aramis settles on at last, his eyes glassy and filled with horror at the mere thought.

 

Treville places one hand upon the boy's neck (he will perhaps forever be a 'boy' to Treville, the youngest of his original recruits and his junior by some twenty-five years), strokes the slightly damp hair at the nape with his thumb. “I do not intend to do any such thing,” he assures him.

 

Aramis shudders under his touch at his words.

 

“Place your hands upon the desk,” Treville orders firmly, lowering his hand to propel Aramis forward.

 

With Aramis dressed only in a shirt and breeches despite the unseasonable chill in the air, it is no great hardship for Treville to reach around him and unlace his breeches and small-clothes. This he does and tugs them down to his marksman's mid-thigh without a word. It is not the first – nor, if he lives long enough, will it be the last – time Treville has had cause to discipline him and Aramis moves into position with hesitant familiarity. He places his hands upon the desk for support and leans forward, his backside just slightly pushed out behind him.

 

Opening anarmoire to his right, Treville removes the martinet from its hook and shakes it out before returning to Aramis' side.

 

“Tell me the name,” he says, gently pushing the young man's shirt out of the way, “of one of your brothers that we left in Savoy. The men who died out there that day.”

 

Aramis hesitates, his breath catching. Then, “Benard's cousin... Guillaume.”

 

Treville raises the martinet and brings it down twice in quick succession across Aramis' naked backside.

 

The man's nostrils flare as he inhales sharply, but he does not move.

 

“Another,” Treville commands.

 

“Jean-Pierre.”

 

Again, Treville snaps the whip smartly against him.

 

“Another.”

 

“Sébastien.”

 

“Another.”

 

On and on. Aramis offers up the names without prompting after the first four – each name sounding like an apology, a prayer – and merely gasps as the martinet bites into him after each of them.

 

“ _Mmph_.” He escapes a stifled moan and turns his head into one shoulder as Treville lays down strikes twenty-one and twenty-two for Benoit, his hands seizing into fists where they lie upon the table.

 

Treville stops, waiting for Aramis to offer up the next of his brothers' names. He takes the opportunity to survey the effect the thrashing is having. The skin across the man's bottom is reddened, evidence of where one strand or another has caught him particularly hard showing as livid spots, but there is no blood. Aramis has taken far worse – has probably in fact _done_ worse to _himself_ through his years in the seminary – but still Treville's stomach lurches at the sight of it. He does not shy from disciplining his men when they deserve it, but he does not relish it the way some commanders might. And this needless, undeserved beating of one he has so wronged is repugnant to say the least.

 

“Arnaud.” Aramis' voice comes as a slightly unsteady reminder that his duty is not yet over, and Treville looks back at him to find his hands flat against the table once more, eyes closed but dry.

 

The next two strikes land atop one another and again it takes Aramis a moment before he is ready to speak the next as he gasps through the sting of them. By Mathieu, the fifteenth on Aramis' list, he is again taking time to compose himself between names. As stroke number thirty-two (for Henri) slashes across his upper thighs he throws his head back with a pained groan, his arms straining.

 

“Aramis,” Treville says quietly, tapping the martinet expectantly against his bare legs.

 

Aramis' head drops back down to his chest and he nods hurriedly. “T- _Tomas_.”

 

Treville's blows for him are half-hearted at best, his own guilt over the boy's death threatening to overcome him. Tomas had been young. Younger even than Aramis – at barely twenty, the youngest in the regiment – and full of boyish excitement over the prospect of travelling so far afield with men he so admired.

Despite the weakness of the lashes, Aramis' shoulders heave and Treville realises with a jolt that he is crying. The Spaniard's eyes remain closed, but from beneath his lashes, great drops escape and drip onto the desk below. Taking a deep breath himself, Treville rubs one hand across the young man's back – understanding, sympathetic.

 

At the next two (for Julien), Aramis wobbles for a moment as he raises one hand to his face as a choking sob escapes him. At his muted distress, Treville feels his own eyes burn.

 

“Almost finished, Aramis.”

 

“Jean-Luc,” Aramis says through gritted teeth, lowering his hand once more.

 

“Last one, son.”

 

Aramis shakes his head, puffing air through his lips. Finally, “Georges.”

 

The last two fall low across his cheeks and he rises up on shaking legs as the sting spreads through him. When it is done, both he and Treville are shaking and breathing harshly. Treville smooths his hand up Aramis' back as he turns to replace the martinet back in its place, allows his fingers to brush across the Spaniard's wild hair. Aramis whines as he does it, still shaking his head.

 

When Treville turns, he has not moved. “You may stand, Aramis,” he says, surprised when all he receives in response is another shake of his head.

 

“ _Marsac_.”

 

Ice floods Treville's veins, followed by fire. He feels breathless, feverish. “No, Aramis. Not for him.”

 

“Marsac _._ ”

 

“ _No_.”

 

Aramis stays stubbornly in position though, does not move even when Treville steps up next to him. His entire body trembles with the aftershock of its ordeal and the effort of keeping himself upright, but still he does not move.

 

“ _He saved me._ ” The words are so soft that Treville almost does not catch them.

 

“He _abandoned_ you,” he corrects, though his guilt burns through him at the knowledge that it was his order that drove Marsac to it. He glances at the damage he has done (the skin is a deep, angry red but unbroken), then steps closer, wrapping one arm around Aramis' waist – ostensibly to hold him up should his arms give out.

 

He raises his right hand and brings it down sharply against one cheek. Aramis' stomach heaves against his arm. He reels back and strikes down against the other side, then twice more and once to the centre for good measure.

 

Aramis is weeping in earnest again now, his emotions too raw and exhaustion too great to be able to hide it. But to Treville's heartbroken surprise, he still has yet one more name.

 

He sobs for a minute, secure and held up by his captain's arm. Then finally, on a breath, “ _Rene_.”

 

When he has counted five, Treville stops and gently releases Aramis. Aramis drops first to his forearms upon the desk then, quite suddenly, collapses to the floor beside the desk. He bring his knees to his chest, his modesty – what there is of it – protected by his billowing shirt, loose and too large on him now. He buries his face in his hands, weeping fitfully. It is a violent outpouring of his grief, his guilt, and his pain and Treville is sorry to have forced such a response from him. He believes it has been necessary though, that Aramis would not have been able to express any of those things without them being drawn from him this way.

 

“Aramis, you must listen to me now,” Treville says firmly, crouching beside him. “Your brothers died not _because_ of you, or _instead_ of you, but because that was the oath they took. They died _for_ you, and for each other. They were soldiers, Aramis – musketeers – and willing to lay down their lives for you, as you were for them. That is the code that they – that _we_ – live and die by.”

 

Aramis makes no answer to that, not that Treville expected him to. He tries to bury his head once more – ashamed, humiliated. Treville catches his face in one hand, forcing it upright to meet his gaze. He hardens his heart to his young marksman as he continues,

 

“They did not give their lives, so that you could spend each day wishing to end yours. Let the man you were die, if that is truly what you feel,” he says, cradling his man's face in his hands, “but do not dare make a _mockery_ of their sacrifice in this way while there are those of us left who remember and loved them.”

 

Aramis lasts an entire minute after that. Then suddenly tips sideways into Treville with a silent scream of inarticulate trauma, and remains there as Treville's arms go around him and crush him against his chest.

 

“You alone, son,” he murmurs to Aramis over his distress, “you alone have returned to us. _Please_ , do not waste that blessing. Let your brothers help you, _love_ you as they surely will _._ ”

 

He weeps for a while after that, Treville with him at times, and shakes his head violently at Treville's assertions of his worth as a friend. Whether because he does not believe it, or because he knows it to be true but cannot allow it to happen, Treville is not sure. Though he has every reason to, even Aramis does not cry forever and eventually lapses into a stuttering quiet.

 

They stand stiffly, Aramis going momentarily breathless with pain, and Treville holds the young man's shoulders – holds him up and safe – to prevent him falling as he slowly rights his clothing. When Aramis straightens again, his eyes are heavy with exhaustion and he presses one hand to them.

 

“Tell me what we live by, Aramis. What _they_ lived by.”

 

“All for one,” Aramis recites wearily, surprising his captain with his immediate obedience, “and one for all.”

 

“Good man,” Treville praises.

 

Aramis yawns, wide and sudden, then shoots him a chagrined look.

 

Treville smiles as he ushers Aramis to the door. “Rest now, son.”

 

As they reach it, he catches the barest whisper of words from Aramis and bids him speak up.

  

“It was not at your order that they died,” Aramis repeats softly, his bloodshot eyes worried and far too compassionate as he meets Treville's gaze.

 

After the door closes behind him, Treville waits until he hears the door to the infirmary close. Then he presses his face to his hands and stifles the sounds escaping him as best he can.

 

 

* * *

_1 month later...._

 

Treville turns to lean his forearms against the railing of the balcony, watching as Aramis and several of the newer members of the company line up targets and shot. Athos takes first shot and strikes fair on the target, an imperfect but certainly acceptable result. Porthos takes up his place next.

 

Treville watches with interest but grimaces as the shot goes wide and misses the centre of the target by several inches – in battle, the difference between a kill and something that barely slows the opponent. Porthos snarls as he sets the pistol back down, his lack of skill wearing on him after just under six months in the regiment.

 

Aramis looks nervous as he steps up between Athos and Porthos, nudges them out of the way then proceeds to fire two pistols into the centre of the target. With a grin that belies his earlier anxiety, he shrugs haplessly and darts out of reach as he is lunged for.

 

There is a moment where Porthos scowls and says something – something vulgar, if Aramis' laughter and Athos raised eyebrows are anything to go by – and Aramis' smile turns fond. He takes up Porthos' pistol and reloads it, then hands it to the other man. Porthos takes it somewhat reluctantly.

 

They stand beside one another for a moment, Aramis evidently explaining – encouraging – then Porthos lifts it again and looks to Aramis for approval. The young man pulls a face, then sidles up and adjusts Porthos' hands. The balls hits, if not dead centre, then as near as dammit, and beside Porthos, Aramis whoops, clapping the older man on the shoulder.

 

Porthos eyes his friend, looking somehow bewildered, fond, and a little exasperated at once by the peculiarity that is Aramis. He chuckles and shakes his head as he obeys the urgent demands to reload. Before they can go again though, Treville whistles, summoning Aramis to him.

 

Aramis glances between his friends before making his way up the stairs to meet his captain. Wordlessly, Treville hands over the letter from the palace.

 

Aramis takes it, somewhat reverently it seems, and unfurls it, eyes skimming over the words before returning to Treville.

 

“You are...content with this?” he asks slowly. “With my return to duty?”

 

“The sooner I can have you and your _accomplices_ out of here, the better,” Treville assures him in all seriousness. If he had ever thought Aramis and Marsac a recipe for disaster...

 

Aramis _beams_ at him, nodding, and at Treville's dismissal turns and hurls himself back down the steps. He leaps on Porthos and thrusts the letter triumphantly in Athos' direction. Athos reads it, and his lips lift in the barest of smiles. Porthos throws one arm around their young friend's shoulders.

 

After five months of worry, and fear that twenty men fallen to Savoy would soon become twenty-one, Treville smiles.


End file.
